


Three of a Perfect Pair

by shinychimera, Yeomanrand



Category: Bourne Supremacy (2004), Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Assassins, Crossover, Implied Character Death, M/M, POV Male Character, POV Third Person, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-18
Updated: 2011-09-18
Packaged: 2017-10-23 20:47:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinychimera/pseuds/shinychimera, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yeomanrand/pseuds/Yeomanrand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim misses his Bones, and thinks making a surprise visit to his medical conference and whisking him away will be a simple matter.  He's wrong.</p><p>~~~</p><p><i>It's a feint, of course it is, but Jim's shocked by the attack — this controlled competence is </i>not<i> the Leonard McCoy he'd been expecting. He doesn't have time for the fearsome fury that blazes up in him; his body's reflexes kick in to  push the arm aside. Jim knows he's screwed when he doesn't feel the man's weight behind the blow. A savage kick sweeps his ankles out from under him, throwing Jim back against the stair rail. The man yanks open his dress tunic and reaches for a concealed holster.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Three of a Perfect Pair

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Jim and Bones Crossover Challenge](http://jim-and-bones.livejournal.com/482389.html), using two of Chris Pine and Karl Urban's many roles. Based primarily on lindmere's prompt "Character 1 is down on his luck but finds success impersonating Character 2, whom he strongly resembles," with elements of weepingnaiads's "coming at the same goal from opposite sides"

Jim taps the conference program impatiently on his thigh, about ready to throttle the cab driver if he doesn't start going a little more boldly. The famous Kirk face and the dress uniform might have gotten him a last-minute seat on a fast transport to the planet, and a courtesy shuttle to the surface, but nothing will get him into a high-security medical conference if he doesn't arrive before the doors close.

He glances down, rubs a thumb against the only face he cares about in the program.

_Leonard McCoy, M.D., Ph.D., will conclude our week-long conference with an in-depth discussion of the future of brain restoration, from his now-familiar neural grafting techniques to the exciting possibilities of whole-brain transplant._

His thumbnail carves a groove along Bones' strong jawline; the formal portrait doesn't do justice at all to the shadowy green of his eyes, the softness of his lips. Jim has been too long without his Bones, and he'd seized the opportunity to make this journey when it arose.

The cab pulls up in front of the long, low hotel, and Jim slides out; let the man charge the Fleet for the fare. He hurries inside, charms his way past the receiving desk and into the hall with scant minutes to spare, and his eyes rake the rows of seats until he finds his quarry — a gorgeous, lean, and polished Bones — sitting about three quarters of the way back.

Excitement sets his heart pounding and his body humming, and he smothers a grin and strides up the side aisle. Bones sees him coming, of course — the fancy tunic with all its gilt is hard to miss — and his eyes narrow: alert and confused all at once, lips struggling to form a welcoming smile. His in-public posture is upright, rather than the annoyed slouch Jim is used to, but he squares his shoulders further when Jim reaches for his arm.

Instead of offering a sharp comment, Bones glances down at the hand on his bicep and back up at Jim, eyebrow arced severely.

"I'm really sorry, Doctor, there's been a personal emergency," Jim says, urgency coloring his whisper. "I need you to come with me."

The hostbeing approaches the lectern, and the audience rustles and quiets; Jim trusts that Bones' overdeveloped sense of propriety won't let him make a fuss here and now. His eyes darken a bit, flicking toward the stage and then off to its left, and Jim sees the muscle tighten in his jaw. But he nods to the woman on his other side.

"Excuse me," he murmurs to her, sliding to his feet. No complaining, no snarky comments about personal emergencies in Jim's pants.

Jim escorts him out through the nearest double doors, just before the eagle-eyed security teams lock them down for the session. He really ought to have taken a closer look at the program, seen which speaker or topic requires such careful protection, but all he wants is Bones in a private place.

The doctor cooperates, back rigid, and points towards a stairwell, away from the guards and the hotel flunkies in the hallway. There's a "damn it, Jim" boiling under the surface, he's quite sure.

The door snicks shut, and he pushes Bones swiftly against the wall, mouth clamping down to stifle his protests before they can begin.

For a split-second Jim tastes his lips, shockingly spoiled by the taint of tobacco smoke, before Bones twists away with a snarl, bringing a hard shoulder between their bodies, his hand flashing toward something in his pants pocket.

Jim blinks, and his forearm snaps down automatically, a brutal chop against the pain point in Bones' wrist before he even registers the shape of the small device that clatters to the ground. The stairwell fills with the peculiar anti-hum of a dampening field, but the silent man doesn't spare a glance for the fallen gadget, striking at Jim's face.

It's a feint, of course it is, but Jim's shocked by the attack — this controlled competence is _not_ the Leonard McCoy he'd been expecting. He doesn't have time for the fearsome fury that blazes up in him; his body's reflexes kick in to block and push the arm aside. Jim knows he's screwed when he doesn't feel the man's weight behind the blow. A savage kick sweeps his ankles out from under him, throwing Jim back against the stair rail, and he slides to the floor. The man yanks open his dress tunic and reaches for a concealed holster, cursing under his breath in an incomprehensible but oddly familiar language.

" _Dmerthi mas jejexeshi, ar makhvs dre am...._ "

On the ground, Jim twists angrily away from the bruising impact of the rail across his back, yanking his arms in to help propel a tight pencil roll toward his opponent's feet. The phaser tracks downward and Jim grabs the impostor's fist and jerks him off balance, fighting for the leverage to prevent him from firing. Jim's almost laying on his ankles, and a sharp elbow jab seals the man's fate — he falls over Jim, turning enough that he crashes to the rough non-skid concrete on his side. Chest heaving, the dark-haired man jerks his head up to find his own phaser pointed between his eyes.

He freezes, then spreads his hands slowly, eyes on Jim's but keenly aware of the weapon.

"Who...the fuck...are you?" Jim demands, letting just a fraction of his rage roughen his voice. He holds steady where he's rolled to his knees, ignoring the pain in his back.

A momentary hesitation; a flicker in the gaze that isn't uncertainty, but a decision.

"Leonard McCoy," he says, chin lifting pugnaciously. There's not a trace of Bones' sullen drawl; some other accent underlies the oh-so familiar voice.

"If you say so, _Leonard_." Jim gathers the surveillance dampener and clips it to his belt, maintaining his steady aim despite his accelerated breathing; unless the guy's a less experienced fighter than he seems, he'll know better than to make any stupid moves for the gun. _Think._ "Where's your room key?"

He makes a gesture toward the inside of his tunic, opposite the holster. Not so foolish as to reach for it, hands still spread wide in the near-universal gesture of surrender, but his eyes are hotly watchful, waiting for the slightest opening.

Careful not to give him one, Jim retrieves the smooth cylinder from the pocket with his off hand, and lets his fingers read the dot-code, all the while pinning the man with the hard gaze that has intimidated gods, gangsters, and Gary Mitchell. And he may be an impostor, but the tiny shifts in his expression are all Bones; Jim sees an angry, perplexed reflection of his own question.

 _Who the fuck_ ARE _you?_

The shadowy eyes, more brown than green at the moment, flick briefly away from Jim's face to the corner of the stairwell and back again; no more than a split second's inattention. Jim's just as aware they're on borrowed time; surveillance might go down accidentally, but it doesn't stay offline without interference. And Jim requires answers.

Jim stands, slowly. "Up. Now."

The man doesn't delay or resist; he doesn't want to get caught here, either. He pulls himself to his feet and begins climbing the stairs, lowering his hands to his sides, careful to keep them where Jim can see them, away from waistband and pockets.

Jim doesn't trust him for a picosecond. He's sure the feeling is mutual; the stranger with his Bones' face checks Jim's position on the landing where the stair turns about, and at the door, but faith never did beat a faster draw and he bides his time.

"We're going back on camera, and you are bringing your _very_ good friend back to your room for some fun," he says. Now that he knows the room number without having to guess if the man is lying, Jim offers the finger-length key back to him. "You seem to be quite good at figuring out how not to die — don't screw it up now."

The man snarls but gives Jim a terse nod, taking the key.

The moment where Jim steps closer is taut and wary on both sides but with one hand Jim snugs the tip of the phaser against the man's ribs, under the still-open tunic, and he wraps the other firmly around his waist. The stranger drapes one arm around Jim's shoulders, and this close Jim can see the fury in those eyes. He knocks the door open with his hip, and the moment Jim shuts off the dampener he slumps against Jim's side in the manner of one drunk, injured, or ill — not "friendly" in the slightest.

Jim swears at him under his breath, making sure the tilt of his head looks like concerned inquiry while he half-supports the man's weight down the hallway, following the escalating number plaques. Getting into the hotel room is fraught with danger no matter how they do it, so Jim is prepared for anything. When they step through, "Bones" becomes a dead weight dropping out of his grip to the floor, and Jim concentrates on holding onto the phaser as the door swooshes shut.

In a heartbeat, his enemy kips up with the key clenched tight between his fingers like a punch-dagger, and the next moments are filled with a brutal confusion of blows and kicks with the gun as the fulcrum of their near-silent violence. Fully alive in the moment, Jim holds onto the weapon, but can't bring it to bear before a hard block exposes his armpit to the stabbing key, which punctures skin and tears muscle. Jim twists desperately aside, baring his teeth in response to the searing pain, and has no time to react to the incoming kick that sends the phaser flying into the far corner of the room. But he carries the momentum and his anger with him in a tight, crouching spin, and he launches himself into a flying tackle.

The sudden ferocity of the maneuver catches the other man off guard and the torso impact knocks him back to the floor alongside the bed. He grunts when Jim's horizontal weight lands on his chest.

Jim whips his straddling knees up to pin hands and forearms to the floor on either side, and pushes himself upright, a trickle of blood seeping into his shirt under his arm. The stranger heaves beneath him, yanking to free his arms from Jim's weight, then, in the only move he has left, jack-knifes his legs up towards Jim's head.

With his off hand Jim punches him in the jaw, hard, letting the same motion round his shoulders so the kicking feet can't impact his skull or wrap around his neck and pull him back. Legs thump back to the floor, blood smears the corner of the stranger's mouth, and it's over.

The man who looks so much like his Bones glares up at Jim, dazed but unbowed. Jim can feel his pounding heartbeat and heavy breathing in the soft belly pinned between his thighs, and his uncomplicated body remembers the _want_ that had been so savagely interrupted. Jim seizes his disheveled forelock, and gives his head a gentle warning bounce against the floor.

"Where is Leonard McCoy?"

"Safe." The word rolls out on a snarl, the man's forehead bearing the faintest furrow of pain. A man of few words, this echo.

"How did you take his place?" Jim growls, grinding his weight down. "Where are you from?"

"Georgia," he spits, with a certain cynical amusement, but there's nothing of pecan pie in his accent. "Same face, different life."

"Another timeline." Jim narrows his eyes, checking his anger while his mind races through the implications. The deadly competence, the high security — the Bones who _belongs_ here had conference access this assassin needed. But did he need the doctor alive, after...?

"Another universe. As you."

Jim starts — a lucky guess, he's almost certain, but it hardly matters. He lifts a loose fist and allows himself a slow, wicked smile.

"Yes. Hunters — killers, the both of us." He tightens his thumb to crack the knuckles along the outside of his fist, easing the ache of his stab wound. "Tell me your name."

Again, a momentary delay that's not uncertainty. "Call me Kirill."

Jim leans closer, lets the threat of violence melt into empty fingers that caress the man's throat. His jaw hardens, eyes going flat at the gentler menace in Jim's touch.

"You see, Kirill, _my_ Leonard McCoy died." He gazes into the hard hazel eyes, so like and so unlike the ones he's known. "I've been skipping universes whenever the opportunity presents itself, looking for a worthy replacement."

The subtlest twitch of an eyebrow. "No doctor, I."

"No."

"I would offer a deal." Kirill speaks slowly, precisely.

"Go on." He's got the upper hand; no harm in listening, and the calculating gleam in the other man's eyes intrigues him — a more aggressive challenge than he's used to seeing from his Bones.

"You let me do my job. I finish, I give you _doctor_ McCoy."

Jim grins. "On a silver platter? With an apple in his mouth?"

"In one piece."

"You're here to kill someone," he drawls indifferently.

His arms have to be in serious pain by now, but Kirill manages a passable shrug. He must have been ready for Jim to press for the identity of his target, but in its absence he lifts his chin, martial readiness shifting. "Would be done already, if not for you."

A hundred options, vicious and pleasurable, have been competing for Jim's attention; the deal opens the way for many more. As a first step, he eases his weight off of Kirill's forearms, enough to let the blood flow back into his hands. Painfully, if the fierce snarl is any indication.

"You don't leave my sight. I won't interfere; hell, I might even help. But I stick with you until you hand over McCoy — alive and... _healthy_."

Jim's hand trails up from his throat, over sandpapery jaw, to trace along the plump, angry lip. He enjoys watching Kirill resist the urge to snap his teeth at the teasing thumb. The man waits until Jim finishes the gesture to turn his head, looks back and up at the bedside clock.

"I need to wash up," he says, looking back at Jim.

"We both do," he grins. "Timetable?"

"Doors open 10:30." He jerks his chin at Jim's blood-soaked tunic. "Enough time to get the blood off, bandage on."

"A little healing instinct after all?" Jim mocks, rocking his weight back from knees to the balls of his feet up to a standing position. He remains on his guard and grits his teeth silently at the pain that shoots down one side of his ribcage, across his bruised back.

"No." Kirill shifts, sitting up slowly, exploring the torn corner of his mouth with a cautious fingertip. "You wish to draw attention?"

Jim shakes his head, chuckling, and gestures him towards the bathroom.

_How am I ever going to get used to seeing these eyes without a sense of humor behind them?_

"We get clean, we get bandaged," Jim says, "we get your job done."

"Yes," Kirill agrees with a terse nod, finishing the climb to his feet. For all his abhorrence of Jim's touch, he shrugs out of the tunic and the empty shoulder holster with uncaring ease on his way to the bathroom, his naked back and shoulders dotted with interesting scars, old and new. His history, his pain; not nearly as much fun for Jim to think about as the way his dress pants cling to his muscular ass.

The rest is almost a dance, the way they maneuver around the phaser and the bathroom door in wary mutual agreement, watch and minimally assist in concealing the damage they've done to each other, dress in fresh shirts and adapt Kirill's escape plan, and finally make their stealthy approach to the backup access point the assassin had chosen. The man moves with powerful efficiency, his focus gleaming like a beautiful blade.

The guests of honor begin filing into the supposedly-secure banquet room for the between-session break. Alert to both the needs of the kill and the dangers his companion still presents, Jim's mind continues flicking through new possibilities, unthought options.

Every Bones he's ever taken has been soft. Sometimes fierce, never fragile, but...movable. Breakable. Always struggling or suffering to preserve life, limb, or sanity, and not always his own.

But Kirill is a rock-hard, stone-cold killer. Tough to break. To have both, killer and doctor, and precious little way to tell the difference between...a feral chuckle slips Jim's silence.

The man waits to lift his sniper weapon from its case until a trio of elderly Vulcans enters the room. When Jim recognizes their all-too-familiar meddling leader, he laughs silently, and slaps Kirill on the shoulder with a tiny needle of the same slow-acting paralytic he plans to use on Bones.

"Oh, this is going to be _fun_ ," Jim says, watching Kirill settle into his final firing position. His finger closes sweetly on the trigger.

_Such a perfect pair the three of us will be._

**Author's Note:**

>  **Note:** Apologies to anyone who speaks Georgian for our butchery of the language!
> 
> Thank you to the "jim_and_bones" community for this lovely challenge banner:  
> 


End file.
